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HEYOKA: The Advent of Grace (4a/10) (ensemble) [adult]

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  • Minisinoo
    HEYOKA: The Advent of Grace 4 Minisinoo http://www.greymalkinlane.com/min/heyoka4.html Notes: Remember that this story is adult fiction; there s some graphic
    Message 1 of 1 , Dec 14, 2001
      HEYOKA: The Advent of Grace 4

      Notes: Remember that this story is adult fiction; there's some
      graphic sex in this chapter, even if it is between a committed
      couple. If that bugs you, skim it or stop reading now. No, I don't
      hate Scott; I'd think that would be obvious by now. Don't flame me on
      Jean's behalf. I don't hate Jean, either. Don't flame me on Scott's
      behalf. The name of Scott's father is from the comics. The Bonnie
      Raitt lyrics come from "Nick of Time" off her album of the same name.
      And yes, Famke Janssen is 8 years older than James Marsden; I
      preserved the difference instead of narrowing it.


      John Proudstar with his mutant strength had been selected to carry
      Grace down to the medlab infirmary, after she had healed Jake O'Dell.
      "All she really needs is sleep," Jean had said. "But I'd like to
      check her vital signs." It was Jean's responsibility as a doctor. She
      might not like the Indian girl, but she didn't want Grace
      Kills-his-Horse dead.

      She just wanted her *gone.*

      From Westchester, from New York. From Scott.

      He was hovering, concerned. Damn him. Couldn't he make his feelings a
      little less obvious? A woman had her pride. Even the boy John was
      looking at him strangely. The professor and Ororo were trying not to.

      They say in spring, a young man's fancy turns to love. But this was
      late October.

      *You're off your seasons, Scott.*

      Truth was, Jean had always assumed that if their relationship should
      one day end, it would be her to end it, for a combination of factors.
      She was older. He had pursued her first. And he was responsible to a
      fault. He'd asked her to marry him. Scott Summers, X-Men leader, heir
      to Xavier's dream and Berkeley graduate *magna cum laude* (so not
      *summa*, so what?) would never go back on his given word just for a
      roll in the hay with an Indian girl and her megawatt smile, high
      school diploma by GED, and anger in her soul.

      Some things are simply not meant to be.

      But he was, indisputably, attracted to Grace. Jean wondered if he
      knew it, had admitted it yet to himself. Jean knew. Not by telepathy.
      She knew it because Grace's name kept invading Scott's conversation,
      because he hung around the school office drinking too much black
      coffee and annoying the fish in Grace's tank, because Jean had more
      than once caught him daydreaming and he wouldn't tell her about what.
      Now, he was watching her work on Grace like his will alone could make
      the girl okay -- a girl much closer to his own age than Jean was.

      *You're lying to yourself, Scott. You're lying to me.* But the
      thought never reached beyond her own skull. It was just the same old
      story here: older woman replaced by a fresh, younger model in a man's
      affections. Jean had turned thirty-four last month. Her body had
      started to fall apart in small ways. Once fine ivory skin now needed
      Oil of Olay to preserve its tone, her breasts had begun to sag (thank
      god for wonder bras), there was more grey in the hair on her head
      (kept carefully dyed), and more hair in other places where it didn't
      belong (kept carefully plucked). Her eyes now had dark rings of a
      morning and very fine lines bracketed her mouth. She had become
      hyperaware of the ticking clock in her womb, too. She wanted to carry
      a child there, feel it move beneath her ribs. His child. She was
      reminded of the words of another red-head: "No matter how you tell
      yourself it's what we all go through, those lines are pretty hard to
      take when they're staring back at you." Bonnie Raitt. You go, girl,
      Jean thought, bitterly.

      Damn Scott. He'd said that he'd love her no matter what, to the end
      of time -- that he didn't care she was older. Very romantic. Very
      easy to promise when she'd been thirty. But what would he say when
      she was forty-five and the lines on her face couldn't be hidden any
      more? Could a thirty-something man at the height of his physical
      strength but past the height of his libido love a middle-aged woman?
      She'd lose her legs, too, eventually. Tina Turner, she wasn't.

      Damn Scott.

      Damn her.

      She stepped back from the table finally. "We should all go and let
      her rest. She'll probably sleep all night."

      "Shouldn't she be taken to her own room, then?" Scott asked.

      Jean glanced at him but spoke to John Proudstar. "John, would you
      mind carrying Miss Kills-his-Horse to her room?" She was not about to
      let Scott carry the girl.

      "Sure," John said, shuffling forward to lift the Sioux woman like she
      weighed nothing at all. Jean didn't look away from Scott the whole
      time. And he, thankfully, didn't follow the departing pair with his
      eyes like some love-sick pup. Instead, he stared back at her. He
      seemed to be frowning slightly, though she couldn't be sure behind
      the glasses. The professor was watching them both. Ororo wasn't. She
      floated around the medlab, picking things up and putting them back
      down. Nerves. The tension in the room was palpable even to a
      non-telepath, Jean was sure.

      "I should get back to my class," Ororo said now, as if seeking

      The professor simply nodded and she left. He continued to watch Jean
      and Scott glare at each other, then shook his head. He was a tactful
      man and believed in privacy, Jean knew. But he had a responsibility
      which overbore that. "Deal with it," he said softly to them as he
      wheeled out. "This cannot be allowed to hurt the team."

      He may as well have slapped Scott. Her lover's nose flared and red
      touched his ears. She knew how much the team meant to him, how much
      he was determined to preserve it. But after the door closed on the
      professor, Scott just turned and walked away from her, began Ororo's
      nervous habit of picking up and putting down miscellaneous objects.
      He was frowning, his whole posture screaming that he didn't know
      where to begin. Jean had no idea, either, or she would have begun it
      a week ago. Telepath or not, the closer one felt to a person, the
      more one had invested in a relationship, the less one was willing to
      risk it by talking about unpleasantries. Knowing what she should do,
      and doing it, weren't the same. But today she was angry, and she was
      hurt, and she wanted most of all to hurt him back. "Shall I return
      the ring so you can give it to her?"

      He actually started, dropped some surgical implement with a
      bell-clatter of metal on metal. "*What?*" The honest surprise in his
      voice annoyed her. How could he act so shocked?

      Propelled by rage, she tugged the engagement ring off her left hand,
      held it up. "This."

      "Jean, what are you talking about?" But it was less question than
      protest. He didn't really want to hear her.

      "What am I talking about? I'm talking about the same *goddamn* thing
      this whole *goddamn* school has been talking about, gossiping about,
      for weeks! You. Me. Grace Kills-his-Horse."

      He had turned his head sideways and was watching her now, bent
      slightly forward as if trying to get a new angle on the old and
      familiar. Finally, he moved, walked over to take the ring out of her
      hand. Her heart thumped once, hard. But then he caught her left hand
      in both his and spread the fingers, slipped the ring back onto its
      familiar groove. "You're being melodramatic. This belongs to you." He
      hesitated. "So does the man who gave it to you."

      "Does he?"

      "Yes." No hesitation that time.

      She looked away from him. "I see how you look at her -- "

      "And I saw how you looked at Logan."

      He hadn't even tried to deny her accusation.

      "This is not about Logan!"

      "Indirectly, it is. You're still with me. He left and you stayed.
      With me. Love is all about choices. Not feelings, Jean."

      It was such a thoroughly *Scott* kind of argument that she nearly
      spit in his face, in rage. "I don't want your *duty*."

      Startled, he drew back, opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came
      out. She could feel the turmoil in his head like the distant annoying
      buzz of a mosquito in a dark room. "What do you want then?"

      "I want your love."

      He didn't reply to that for a long time, just continued to stare at
      her. Finally, he said, "You have it. You always did. But like I said,
      love isn't about feelings. I made a commitment to you."

      So rational, so rational. He was always so blasted rational. "Duty,"
      she said again.

      "What the hell is wrong with duty?" He was furious now, got right in
      her face until all she could see were her own eyes reflected red in
      his glasses. "Maybe what you really want isn't love, Jean. What you
      really want is a man who's *obsessed* with you." That said, he turned
      on his heel and stalked out.

      Jean sank down to the floor and just sat there, spinning the ring on
      her left hand, around and around. She sat a long time. Were his words
      true? Was that what had attracted her to Logan -- that he'd fixated
      on her like a dog to a bitch in heat? Did she like it when men chased

      Of course she did. What woman didn't? It was flattering. Scott had
      chased her once, too. Persistent, determined, creative in his
      strategies and never afraid to look the fool at the outset as long as
      he didn't look a fool in the end. He'd embarked on a one-man campaign
      for her heart. She would never forget the night he'd serenaded her *a
      capella* -- on his knees -- in the dining room in front of the entire
      school and the professor, too. Had he not been able to sing so well,
      he'd have looked like an idiot. But he could sing, and knew it. He
      always knew what he could do. Was that arrogance, if he was right? Or
      was it just confidence, the same thing that made him a leader? He
      hadn't cared that he was younger than her, that she had a higher
      academic degree than he did. He'd wanted her. Prince Charming had
      ridden to her front gate and set up siege. How could she have turned
      him down? When, after only six months, he'd gone down on his knee
      again -- this time in private -- with a ring in his hand and a
      nervous question on his lips, it had seemed the most logical thing in
      the world to say 'yes.'

      But he didn't do those things any more. Her walls had been breached,
      her citadel brought low. She was conquered. Now he said that he loved
      her and let his eyes stray to another woman, another potential
      conquest, and expected her to ignore it. She couldn't. He'd fought
      once to win her. Now she was going to fight back.

      She pushed herself up and removed her lab coat. Shocky with fear, she
      made her way upstairs.

      It was dinner time. She knew she should eat something but wasn't
      hungry, passed by the dining room and glanced in the door. Ororo sat
      forlorn at the teacher's table with no Jean, no Scott, no professor,
      and not even Grace to keep her company. The rest of the room was
      filled with overly excited students circling Jake O'Dell, John
      Proudstar and others who had been present when Grace had healed Jake.
      They were heros by association.

      But Grace was the real hero.

      Jean went on. What good was a doctor at a school with a mutant healer
      who pretended to be a secretary? Useless.

      *Don't be stupid,* she scolded herself. There were a hundred things
      she did that Grace couldn't, wasn't trained for, didn't have the
      power to do. One regrowth of epidermis and the girl was out for the
      count. Not very useful in a real emergency. Her regenerative ability
      wasn't that powerful, certainly less than Logan's. Jean should be
      ecstatic for young Jake who wouldn't now face life with a badly
      scarred arm. Doctors didn't compete in the emergency room. They saved
      lives. But that didn't alter her sense of being badly upstaged. Jean
      couldn't have done for Jake what Grace had. Not only was the girl
      honing in on Jean's man, she was honing in on Jean's vocation.

      Jean stopped outside the door of the room she shared with Scott.
      Shared for how much longer? She could hear him inside, playing. The
      distinctive bass-line from Rush's "Tom Sawyer." He played when he was
      tense, or angry, or upset. Music relaxed him, or let him express
      himself in a way he couldn't with words.

      She put her hand on the nob, but didn't open the door. After a
      moment, the music stopped and the door swung inward. His jaw and the
      hand on the bass neck were both clenched tightly. "How did you know I
      was out here?" she asked. He wasn't the telepath.

      "Your heels. I heard them stop."

      "Over the music?"

      He shrugged with one shoulder, moved aside to let her enter and
      slipped the Wal off, set it back in its stand. She stopped inside the
      door. She wasn't angry any more; she was scared. "Scott -- "

      "I *am* obsessed with you, you know," he interrupted. He wasn't
      looking at her; he was messing with the bass strap. Such fine hands
      with their long fingers. Light from the desk lamp fell soft on his
      hair and cut chiseled lines under sharp cheekbones. "I've been
      obsessed with you since the first time I saw you. You barely knew I
      existed then."

      "I knew you existed. But you were only eighteen."

      He glanced around at her. "I did everything in my power just to get
      you to smile at me."

      "You tried harder than you needed. I guess you could say I was
      predisposed." She tried to smile for him now but it felt fake,
      plastered on her face like those of the beauty queens on parade
      floats. She gave up, added, "It was different when you came back from
      California. You weren't a kid any more. And you were . . .

      "Is that why you finally said 'yes'? Because I asked you twenty times

      "Maybe I said 'yes' because I have a soft spot for Sting. You did a
      wonderful imitation in the dining room."

      He smiled faintly, sang, "To have you with me I would swim the seven
      seas, to have you as my guide and my light. My love is a flame that
      burns in your name. We'll be together. We'll be together tonight."

      She approached him, laid a palm on his chest over his heart, stared
      at the hand, not his face. "Is your love still a flame?"


      She looked up finally, but his eyes were forever hidden to her. She
      couldn't read them, only his voice. Or his mind. But she was afraid
      to touch his mind, afraid of what truth she might find there. "We
      didn't have a lot of choices, though, did we, back then? There
      weren't many of us, and for a mutant, getting a date on Saturday
      night -- "

      "I had choices at Berkeley, Jean. Clarice, for one."

      She blinked. She'd almost forgotten that. But it had been Berkeley,
      after all -- bastion of California liberalism. Some of the women had
      found him fascinating, as much because he was a mutant as because he
      was handsome. Scott didn't do celebacy well. He didn't have high
      needs, but he did have pressing ones. She and he hadn't talked much
      about his affairs at Berkeley, but she knew very well that he'd had
      sex now and then, maybe a little more than 'now and then.' The one
      time she'd visited him out there, she'd seen how the girls looked at
      him, and hadn't liked it. That had been the first time she'd realized
      that what she felt qualified as more than a 'big sister' ought to

      "But I only really wanted you," he finished now. "Only, ever you.
      See?" He tilted his head. "Obsession."

      She brought up her other hand, slid both over his shoulders and
      rubbed her thumbs across his collarbones. Such broad shoulders to
      bear up the professor's dream. He was their Atlas. She let her right
      hand move to his face, stroke his cheek. "You're so strong, and so

      "So are you. Beautiful."

      "For an older woman."

      "For a woman period. Don't start that, Jean. You know I've never
      cared." He turned his head to kiss her palm, then leaned in to reach
      her mouth. She undid his shirt as they kissed, and he undid hers. His
      hands found her breasts, rubbed the nipples, and she sucked in

      "Scott . . . . "

      He didn't answer. He didn't like to talk during sex, didn't like to
      make any sound at all. Even without his glasses, his face could be so
      blank right up until he came. The only way she knew if he liked
      something was to read it out of his mind. He had to be in control.
      Every minute.

      Now, he drew her over to the bed and laid her down on it, got the
      rest of her clothes off, then his own. She lay passive the whole
      while, her eyes closed, let him explore her body with his fingers and
      lips. He'd taken off his glasses so he was blind. The first few
      times, he'd been frightened of that, afraid he might blink in the
      heat of the moment. But she'd known better. With Scott, there never
      was a 'heat of the moment.' Control again. Always in control. Once
      she'd needed to see his naked face; now, she needed something else.
      She sat up suddenly and opened her own eyes, almost hit him in the
      chin. "Wha-- ?"

      "My turn. Lay down."

      He didn't protest, did as she had ordered. She straddled him, right
      over his naked hips so that the heat of her inner folds enveloped his
      erection. He made no sound but his eyes squeezed just slightly, once.
      Otherwise, his face was a mask. And so young. He always looked so
      young without his glasses, younger than he really was. She leaned
      over him so that her nipples brushed his chest, breathed gently
      against his mouth and drew her tongue along his upper lip. Teasing.
      He still didn't say anything, but his hands had come up to her back,
      pulling her against him, trying to kiss her back. "No," she
      whispered. "Still my turn." He subsided.

      From the nightstand, she took his sleepband and slipped it on his
      face. "I don't need that -- " he began.

      "Shhhh. You might before I'm done with you."

      "Jean -- "

      "Shhh." She would make him lose control tonight. This was war and she
      intended to win him back.

      She drew her lips over his sculpted chin, down his neck past the
      hollow of his throat, across his chest to a nipple, bit it. That got
      a noise, albeit a small one. Then down, down to the bellybutton. She
      lapped that and left it, followed the line of hair. But she didn't
      stop at his erection. She kissed around it to the hollow of his hip.
      He squirmed a little now, but still said nothing. She licked his
      milky inner thigh, then the brown scrotum, got hair in her mouth and
      had to spit it out. She brought the tip of her tongue to the base of
      his cock, drew it up the big vein to the ring of the head, flicked
      that. He drew in breath between his teeth, sharply, and put a hand on
      her head, stroked her hair.

      But this wasn't going to get her what she wanted. She knew all too
      well the extent of his control; it would take more, take something
      new. There were advantages to being a doctor; she knew the human body
      very well, and Scott wasn't the only one who hadn't pursued celibacy
      in college. Reaching down between her legs, she used her own
      lubrication to wet a finger, then slid it into his anus at the same
      time she took his cock in her mouth. It startled him and he gasped at
      the feel of being invaded and swallowed at once, then gasped again
      when her finger found his prostate. His hands gripped her hair. He
      tried to be so gentle but she didn't want gentle all the time, like a
      diet of vanilla pudding. She wasn't glass. She massaged his prostate
      and sucked hard at his cock. He was making noises she'd never from
      him in the almost three years of their relationship.

      Abruptly she rolled away, left him high and dry. He actually pulled
      his knees up and hissed through his teeth. He looked very vulnerable.
      She moved up beside him and went back to work, determined to wring
      sound from him, take away his control tonight. She wanted to hear him
      whimper for her like she did for him. She used her telepathy to gauge
      how close he was to orgasm, then she'd stop cold, pull away. Torture,
      of a kind. She enjoyed it immensely, the power of it. After half an
      hour, she had him wound so tightly that he actually swore at her when
      she pulled away yet again. She was wound tight herself. Time to end
      it. Pushing him down on his back a final time, she straddled him and
      lifted his erection until it just touched the lips of her vagina.
      "Tell me you want me."

      "Jean -- "

      "Beg for me."

      "I don't like those kinds of games. You know that!"

      "Beg or I'll stay like this."



      "All right. Please."

      "That's begging?"

      "What do you want?"

      "I want to know that you want me."

      "I'd think it pretty damn obvious!"

      She bent to blow across his ear, lick the point of his jaw, move her
      body down on his cock just enough for him to feel wet pressure on the
      sensitive head.

      "God, Jean!"

      "Tell me you want me."

      "I want you!"

      She lowered herself finally, arched her back up and away. He gasped.
      She felt his hands move from her hips up her torso to her breasts,
      massage them. He wasn't gentle now. She raised up on him, then
      pounded down against his hips so hard that it made the bed rock. Did
      it again. And again. The fourth time she stopped when she'd reached
      the apex. "Tell me that you want me."

      "I want you." His voice actually broke. "*I want you.*"

      She laughed a little and bent to bury her face against his neck, bit
      hard, made him cry out. Their bodies kept going. Every time they came
      together it sparked fire at her center and she had her eyes shut as
      tightly as he ever did, gasping, pushing herself to ignite that
      spark. "*Scott.*" She said it over and over with her lips and her
      mind, made his name a mantra. He wasn't saying anything even that

      But he was making noise. Lots of it.

      They didn't come together. They did manage to come close though,
      slamming into each other so hard she knew she'd be bruised tomorrow.
      Right now, she didn't care. It hurt good. Then he arched his back,
      head pushed against his pillow, neck extended, teeth gritted. He was
      coming in jerky motions and animal-dragged-over-its-border sounds
      that she hadn't known he could make. The wonder of it nearly undid
      her own crest. What power. She could do this to him. She had the
      power to do this to him. Then she forgot it as the flint spark
      between her legs flowered, and she screamed.


      Continued DIRECTLY in part 4b/10 . . . .

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